


You Design Dreams

by The_Apostrophe_of_Catastrophe



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: But they're still the best friends ever, Chris and Phichit are so done, Costumes, Fashion & Couture, Fashion Designer Yuuri, Getting to Know Each Other, Humor, Victor is smitten, Yuuri is precious, these dorks I swear, victor still skates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 11:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16366784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Apostrophe_of_Catastrophe/pseuds/The_Apostrophe_of_Catastrophe
Summary: Yuuri needed a big break. Victor needed a muse. They find what they're looking for, and a little more besides.





	You Design Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 7 of Yuri!!! On Runway: Fashion Week 2018! The prompt was "Creativity" and what sparks creativity? Inspiration.
> 
> Here's for all of us crazy dreamers.

It wasn’t meant to happen.  Yuuri had no idea how he landed the first gig; he’s pretty sure someone misunderstood him and thought he possessed skills he hadn’t yet learned.  All he knows is that one moment he was a broke college graduate with no prospects and a mountain taller than Everest of debt, and the next he’s a contracted fashion designer, doing what everyone always said would never happen: the thing he got his degree in. After the first came a second, and then a third, and suddenly Yuuri had a contract with _Aria Fashions_ , his own website, and reviews so good it looked like he paid someone to write them.

“ _Fresh_ ,” one said.

“ _Vibrant_ ,” another described his work.

“Inspired?” Yuuri glanced at Phichit, who was sprawled on their well-worn couch, skimming an article about… something.  Honestly, Yuuri could have done worse than getting a photographer as a roommate.  It certainly gave the gallery on his website a professional quality.  “They think I’m inspired.”

“Aren’t you?”  Phichit asked absently.  “Ideas gotta come from somewhere, my friend!”

“I mostly just use the ideas they already have and hope it’s what they envisioned,” Yuuri admits, not for the first time. 

It’s not that he disagreed with them; he was inspired, once upon a time.  But college, while it honed his skills, also sucked the life out of his mind.  He worried he had become too predictable in his styles.  But any time he tried to branch off into anything _new_ or _different_ or _unconventional_ , his designs looked more like Picasso paintings and less like something anyone would actually wear if they didn’t want to look like a product of a science fiction film merging with the cubist era.  Lately, most of his inspiration came from a strong desire to be able to afford his grocery bill _not_ have to sleep on the streets of New York City.

“Maybe you need something different,” Phichit mused.  He sat up with a grunt and leaned across the coffee table to jam his phone under Yuuri’s nose, jolting the screen of Yuuri’s laptop in the process.  “Read this.”

Yuuri skimmed the article.  It wasn’t a news article, he found, but a set of rules and guidelines.  

“A competition?” he asked when he reached the end.  “Phichit, why would I enter a competition?”

“Oh, come on, your last job was literally the rent for the next three months, you can afford to do something risky for a change!”  Phichit clearly did not see the cons of attempting a job with no guarantee of being paid.  “Come on, you should give it a go!”

“What is it even for?” Yuuri asked.

“Oh, right.” Phichit tapped the screen a few times.  “It’s for this figure skater—he’s like, really well known apparently.  Seriously, the number of followers this guy has on social media are off the charts, even for a professional athlete.  Anyway, the dude wants someone to design a costume for his upcoming skating season. Do they call them seasons? Figure skating is a sport, and football has seasons, right?”

Yuuri ignored his friend’s ramblings.

“Costume design, huh?” he said.  “Never tried that before.”

That was a lie.  The entire reason Yuuri first formed an interest in clothes was his parents’ love of historical TV dramas.  The rich colors and vibrant fabrics made quite the impression on a young Yuuri Katsuki, and he soon took to drawing his own ideas on spare napkins around his family’s inn.  Unfortunately, opportunities to incorporate doublets and waistcoats and bustles were few and far between in modern fashion.  “Who’s the guy?”

“Victor Niliforv or something, I don’t know, I can’t pronounce it.  I think he’s Russian.”  Phichit flipped the screen back to Yuuri, and for a moment Yuuri felt his breath hitch in his throat like fabric caught in a sewing machine.

_He looks like a prince,_ was his first thought, _like something out of a fairytale._

“Oh,” was all he said out loud, however.  It was a testament to how well Phichit really knew him that his friend raised an eyebrow at his response.  Yuuri was so sure that he had managed to keep his tone neutral.

“Feeling inspired all of a sudden, are we?” he asked slyly.  Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to even roll his eyes.

Instead he said, quite honestly, with perhaps something close to reverence, “Yes. Yes, I think I am.”

 

Victor needed a muse.  Inspiration was dead, and his career along with it. The season was practically upon him (okay, fine, he was a few months out, but it was getting closer every day and Yakov was nagging him more and more with every shrugged “I’m working on it,” Victor gave him) and he had no costume, no music, and no free skate. He had toyed with a few ideas for a short program, but had ultimately discarded them too—perhaps he would save them for next year, but he simply couldn’t feel any pull toward any of his own ideas this year. 

“I mean it, Chris,” he moaned, one shoulder hitched up to cradle the phone to his ear while he scooped dog food into Makkachin’s bowl.  “What if I’m already washed up? What if this is the end?”

“Victor, mon cheri, you’re more dramatic than me today,” Chris said, laughter in his voice. “Why don’t you go find a random word in the dictionary and let that be your theme; at the absolute minimum, it will surprise the audience.”

Victor stayed quiet for a moment, thinking.  Then he got up and walked to the bookshelf in his living room.

“Not a bad idea, Chris,” he said.

“What? No, Victor, wait, that was a joke, mon ami,” Chris protested, laughing.

“That doesn’t make it any less of a good idea,” Victor told him brightly, huffing a little as he pulled the weighty dictionary from the shelf closest to the floor.

“Victor, be reasonable.  I know you have a, shall we say, capricious reputation, but you’re going to end up with something like ‘tacenda’ or ‘stoichiometry’ as your theme!”

“I’m impressed you even know words like that,” Victor said.  He sat down and placed the book on the floor in front of him, shooing Makkachin away with a soft push when she crowded his space to see what her master was doing.

“I had tutors, excellent tutors,” said Chris.  “Alright, Victor, I suppose I might as well enjoy being the first person in on your plans, as your number one instigator, but please don’t blame me when your coach throws a fit.  That man terrifies me.”

“Yakov is all bark and no bite, to use the English phrase,” Victor chuckled. 

“His bark is most people’s bite.”

“That’s not a phrase, Chris.  Now hush, this is a very important moment!”

“Bring it on.”

Victor held the book so that the spine was to the floor, then he closed his eyes and let it fall open.  The covers thudded lightly on the hardwood.

“I heard noise, that sounded dramatic,” said Christophe.

Victor felt for the page with his index finger, the paper dry under his touch.  He froze, and opened his eyes—and laughed.

“What, what is it?” he heard Chris say. It took him a moment to answer, but he finally regained control of his breathing.

”Competition,” he read aloud, “The act or process of trying to get or win something such as a prize or a higher level of success that someone else is also trying to get or win: the act or process of competing.”

On the other end of the phone, Chris was wheezing. 

“Well, I’d say that really clears things up,” he said.  “Competition, that’s your theme this season.  Note that it wasn’t ‘success’ or ‘glory;’ just competition.”

And yet… something about the words struck Victor.

“Competition,” he murmured. “That’s it! That’s it, Chris!”

“Victor, I hate to break this to you, but you’ve been competing even longer than I have.  I’m pretty sure ‘competition’ has been a theme in your life for twenty years.”

“No, Chris! I’ll let a competition decide my theme!”

“Eh?”

“I have to let you go—I need to call my publicist, but I’ll talk to you soon!”

“Victor—I”

But Victor had already hung up and was redialing before his friend could get another word in.

“Alina, hello! No, this isn’t about the photoshoot.  I have an idea that I need some help putting together…”

In a small town in Switzerland, Christophe smiled as he tossed his phone onto the couch cushions.

“How is Victor, mon amour?” asked a smooth voice at his ear, and a hand came up to scratch his head.

“Crazy,” Christophe said, utterly unconcerned. “As crazy as always.”

 

Yuuri was out of ideas.  Every idea he’d had was crumpled and scattered on the floor, useless and stupid and _God, did he really think he could do this? Just how pompous was he?_ He glanced at his phone, where Victor Nikiforov’s face smiled at him from Instagram.

He really was beautiful.  A fairytale come to life.

A fairytale…

No. No, he couldn’t do something that simple. It was too obvious; dozens of people would have already had that idea, how could he possibly stand out with something that typical? He was a fashion designer, typical was for the past, the only way to move forward was to do something that no-one had ever done before. Originality was everything, right?

And yet.

Yuuri had wondered, several times in the past, whether the phrase “there’s nothing new under the sun” was really true, whether everything had already been done.  Too many times, his silent answer had been _yes_ , because there are only so many ways to include a slit skirt, only so many types of collars and sleeves to choose from.

Yes, everything had been done before.

But not by him.

He took out another notebook, have practically ruined his other, and reached for a pencil.  His hands trembled, as the lead touched the page, but he glanced at the photo still lighting up his phone screen and he could see it so _clearly_.

Time lost all meaning.  Maybe it was minutes, maybe hours.  It didn’t matter.  Phichit would let him know if he’d been working for longer than 24 hours solid.  He got lost in thoughts of _perhaps an epaulette?_ and _I bet chiffon would work beautifully here._  And then… he was done.

Well, not done, exactly.  He would have to create another set of sketches, that were a little less messy, a little more streamlined, perhaps with better shading. But the main idea? He had it. It wasn’t _original_ in the way most people would expect of a fashion major who had worked with a major design company, whose designs had seen runways in New York and Tokyo and Paris. It was… simpler. Elegant.

It was his.

“Yuuri, I’m home! Please tell me you have eaten something today,” called Phichit from the entryway.  Yuuri could hear him put his coat on the rack by the door, could hear it fall to the floor.

“In here,” he called from his room.

“There you are,” Phichit said. “Whacha doing?”  He surveyed Yuuri’s room with a far-too appropriate expression of interest and worry.  “Looks like the product of a brainstorm,” he commented.  Yuuri didn’t answer, just handed him a page full of sketches and scribbled writings that somehow combined both English and his native Japanese. Phichit took it and held it up to the light.  He was quiet for a moment.

“Well?” asked Yuuri, nervous. He knew it was too boring, beyond unoriginal, stupid, as if he could…

“Yuuri,” said Phichit, with a tone he normally reserved for commenting on something particularly brilliant his hamsters had done, “Yuuri, this is perfect.  It’s absolutely perfect.”

“…You mean that?”

Phichit nodded. “It’ll be a work of art, Yuuri.  I’d bet my hamster pillow. And it’s going to look fantastic under those stadium lights.”

 

  1. That is how many people had sent in designs. Of those, approximately 18 were spam, 34 were jokes sent by fans hoping to make him laugh (or possibly blush; goodness, didn’t they realize how utterly _impractical_ that outfit would be on the ice, assuming he didn’t get banned for public indecency?), and 11 were drawings that were probably sent by proud mothers looking to promote their _incredibly talented_ 12-year-old’s work. That left him with 84 viable options that looked like they were created by mostly-professionals. Of those, there were approximately 39 that did not look like they were drawn by the same person using different colors.



“I mean, I understand that there are only so many types of sleeves to work with, but why do fashion designers keep insisting on the funky collars?” Victor complained, shuffling through the pile.  Chris was laughing at one of the designs Victor had forwarded.

“I think you should go with the one that’s charmingly reminiscent of 90’s Lisa Frank-Goth-Emo.  That’s an aesthetic right there,” his friend told him over their video chat.

“Ah, yes, that’s exactly what I need,” Victor said.  “It would be unexpected, I’ll give them that, but I’d really rather not give Yakov a literal heart attack…” He trailed off, eye catching on something. 

“You find a decent one?” asked Chris.

“I actually think I did,” said Victor, flipping the camera around.

“Oh, my,” Chris said. 

It was soft and elegant, the kind of elegance that had faded out with Imperial dynasties and princes that today exist only in fairytales.

Fairytales…

Victor had had a book growing up: _The Blue Fairy Book._   A collection of fairytales from around the world, from authors including Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm, the book had greatly influenced a young Victor’s imagination.  For years, he had dreamt of being a prince.  Lately, that childhood fantasy had morphed into a desire for someone to come and find him, for a change.  But something in the pale pinks and rich golds of this costume shifted his idea slightly. 

_What if the prince saved himself? Just this time, what if he was both the quester and the prize?_

Victor tried to give the other pieces a fair shot, but in the back of his mind he kept comparing each new sketch he looked at with the one he had, admittedly, already fallen in love with.

“You sound like a man who has already made a decision,” said Chris, sounding somehow shocked that he could come to a decision so quickly.

“Miracles happen after all,” Victor murmured, tracing the screen of his laptop with a finger as though it held the secrets to a life outside of his career.

“Yuuri Katsuki,” he said softly, “Why haven’t I heard of you before now?”

           

Yuuri was certain that this entire affair was a prank.  It had to be, didn’t it? Things like this didn’t just happen, not to him.  This wasn’t a fifteen-second walk down the runway of some mid-range line (although those did pay well) this was an opportunity to showcase his true creative skills _internationally._ (And oh, gods, an Olympic skater— _did he mention that Victor had won the Olympics?!—_ liked his design well enough to wear it to an international competition…) No, there was no way this was happening. 

The email glaring at him from his screen said otherwise.

 

            Dear Mr. Katsuki, (it read)

            We are so delighted to announce that you have just won our _Inspiration!!! On Ice_ Competition.  As such, your entry costume has been chosen by Russia’s World Champion figure skater, Victor Nikiforov, as the outfit he will wear for his short program.  Mr. Nikiforov would like to extend the offer further and commission a free skate costume as well.  You will be compensated for your efforts, on top of the prize money from this competition ($2,000 USD). If you are willing, you are welcome to contact Mr. Nikiforov at his personal email address to make further arrangements.

            Sincerely,

            Alina Korovaskaya

           

“Phichit,” Yuuri called weakly, “Phichit, I think I…”          

“Yuuri? What is it, man, what’s wrong?” Phichit asked from the kitchen, where he was heating Macaroni and cheese for the third time this week. It was only Wednesday.

“I messed up, I can’t do this, it’s too much,” Yuuri said.  Phichit rushed into the room, concerned and confused.  His expression cleared when he read the email.

“Yuuri, this is fantastic! I can’t believe it—I mean, I can, I never doubted you, but, I mean, it’s not like anyone expects stuff like this to happen! Congrats, my dude!”  But he took in Yuuri’s panicked expression.  “You don’t look very happy for someone who just one a huge competition like this; soon the whole world is going to see what you’re capable of!”

“That’s just the problem,” Yuuri groaned.  “I got lucky on this one, but now he wants me to make another one—and this time he’ll have expectations!”

“Yuuri, my main man, this is no time for panicking. Let yourself bask in your own glory for a moment, breathe it in! Are you worried about disappointing him?”  Yuuri nodded. “Look, he chose your entry for a reason.  He’s seen what you can do on your own; if he has a vision, he’s the one that has to tell _you_ that. He’s not going to expect you to just magically look into his brain and _know._   And if he’s one of those picky, impossible-to-please stars, then you just gently imply that perhaps another designer will be able to bring his idea to life in a way that pleases him!  Either way, you’ve won; you get free publicity, _and_ he’s paying you! There is no losing in this situation!”  This had Yuuri smiling at last as the realization sank in.

“I won,” he said.

“Hell yeah, you did,” cheered Phichit.  “Here, let me help you compose that email.”

“You’re going to make me sound like some kind of playboy,” Yuuri said, and he knew Phichit could hear how little Yuuri trusted him.

“What, me? Try to set my best friend up with the hot Olympic skater who is _obviously_ a massive fan of said best friend’s work? I would never.  Now hand me your laptop; I’ll make sure you sound professional, don’t worry!” 

 

            To: Victor Nikiforov (v_nikiforov@gmail.com)

            From: Yuuri Katsuki (katsukiyuuri@gmail.com)

            Sent 2:53 p.m.

            Hello Mr. Nikiforov,

            My name is Yuuri Katsuki and it seems that I’ve won your competition; I am so pleased you thought so highly of my design. If you really are interested in commissioning a free skate costume, I would be more than happy to set up a consultation.  Does Skype work for you?

            Sincerely,

            Yuuri Katsuki

 

             

            To: Yuuri Katsuki (katsukiyuuri@gmail.com)

            From: Victor Nikiforov (v_nikiforov@gmail.com)

            Sent 10:18 p.m.

            Hello, Yuuri! (You don’t mind if I call you Yuuri, do you?)

            Yes, congratulations on that! Your design really stood out; I’ve been needing inspiration for the upcoming season and yours really sparked something! I would love to commission a second costume if you are up to the challenge ;)  Yes, Skype works just fine! What’s a good time for you? I’m training in St. Petersburg, but I’m usually free around 8 pm, my time, but I don’t know what time that would be for you… Let me know and we’ll figure out a day!

            Can’t wait to hear from you!

            Victor Nikiforov

 

 

            To: Victor Nikiforov (v_nikiforov@gmail.com)

            From: Yuuri Katsuki (katsukiyuuri@gmail.com)

            Sent 4:18 p.m.

            Hi Mr. Nikiforov,

            Thank you so much for your quick reply. 8 p.m. for you is about 1 p.m. for me, and I can definitely make that happen. Perhaps next Monday afternoon? (Well, afternoon for me, evening for you, I suppose.) Do you have any ideas already?

            Very best,

            Yuuri Katsuki

 

            To: Yuuri Katsuki ([katsukiyuuri@gmail.com](mailto:katsukiyuuri@gmail.com))

            From: Victor Nikiforov ([v_nikiforov@gmail.com](mailto:v_nikiforov@gmail.com))

            Hi, Yuuri!

            Monday is perfect, absolutely! I have a few ideas, and I hope to run them by you; I can’t wait to see what you do with them!

            Talk to you then,

            Victor

 

Victor had exactly zero ideas.  That’s not entirely true; Yuuri’s first costume had sparked one or two ideas, that much was honest on Victor’s part. But he hardly knew where to _go_ with it.  Princes, nobility, lost dreams, searching for a happy ending? There were so many possibilities, and Victor knew that there was one waiting for him on the in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put it into words, in Russia, English, or even French.  But Yuuri had inspired him once, (or his work had, at least) and perhaps once he listened to Yuuri talk, or maybe if he talked to Yuuri, he would be able to develop his ideas further.  Perhaps a sounding board was what he needed.  A sounding board that was not also is competition, that is…

It was 7:43 p.m. on Monday evening when Victor practically fell through his apartment door in his haste to arrive on time.  International skating star or no, it simply didn’t do to be late for his first consultation.  Especially one as good-looking as Yuuri Katsuki. (Why yes, he had in fact looked up Katsuki’s website. What? He wanted to see the face of the man who had pushed him past his mental block.) 

7:52 already.  Victor had hung up his coat, fed Makkachin, and splashed some water over his face, enough to wipe the sweat away.  He eyed the clock; it was too late for him to shower, but a glance in the mirror made him groan.  He looked like a flaming garbage can. A flaming garbage can that had been run over by a truck! He ran a hand through his hair, pouted when it didn’t stay back, then tried it again, reaching for the hairspray as he did.  Great. Now he looked like a businessman on a bad hair day.  On top of that, his clothes were sweaty and gross. (He knew that sweat was part of the job description, of course he did. He was a five-time world champion, and he didn’t reach that title by complaining every time he got a little winded.  But now was not a good time, for Pete’s sake!)  Eyes darting around the room, he finally grabbed at his Olympic jacket, with its vivid colors and slightly worn hem.  Surely Yuuri wouldn’t be able to actually _see_ the hem.  And besides, nothing screamed “Professional Athlete who Totally Knows What He’s Doing” more than a souvenir _from the Olympics._   Victor was not showing off.

He wasn’t.

(Really.)

He turned on his tablet and pulled up Skype.  He checked the clock again. 7:59.

What if Yuuri was one of those crazy designers? Victor could deal with that, he’d done it before, but it would be really nice if the man who had, if only momentarily, brought him back to life could be as… honest… as his art suggested.  There was something so _real_ in his work, elegantly unpretentious.  Beautiful without being purely for the sake of a show.  Victor had missed that feeling. 

The call came through at 8:02. One of Victor’s hands gripped the tablet.  The other twitched as it answered the call.

“Yuuri!” he called happily.  “So glad you called!”

Victor was as close to face-to-face with Yuuri as he could be while an ocean and a couple continents away, and oh, heavens on high the man was lovely.  Warm, like his apartment on chilly Saint Petersburg evenings.  He looked like _comfort_ personified.  Yuuri was fiddling with his glasses (he had glasses!) but he looked very professional, from what Victor could see.  His crisp button up shirt certainly looked nicer than Victor’s sweat-stained t-shirt, at any rate. 

“Hello, Mr. Nikiforov,” Yuuri said. Victor melted a little.

“Mr. Katsuki, a pleasure,” he replied, and perhaps he sounded a little too enthusiastic, but it didn’t seem to bother Yuuri.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” he murmured from the screen.  Readjusting something on the table out of the camera’s sight, Yuuri cleared his throat.  “If I may, I actually wanted to thank you again, before we got down to business.  I’m really excited about this project, and I hope that I can meet your expectations.”

And wasn’t that too sweet?  Yuuri was excited about a project that Victor didn’t even know how to start! Victor suddenly had a strong urge to apologize, though he wasn’t sure what for. For dragging a person like Yuuri into Victor’s world full of tangled emotions and dead inspiration?

Could a creative block be contagious?

“I should really be thanking you, actually,” Victor admitted.  He realized it must have been an odd thing to say because Yuuri seemed a bit surprised.

There are moments when you can feel something shift in a conversation, sometimes.  A moment when two strangers become a little more—not quite friends, perhaps, but definitely not strangers.  Maybe it was kindred spirits recognizing each other, maybe some people just _click_.  But Victor felt a shift occur in the moment that Yuuri blinked in shock and asked, in genuine confusion, “You’re thanking me for winning a competition you created?”

“I—no, that’s not—I mean,” Victor stuttered.  He stopped, took a breath.  Started again.  “May I be honest with you, Mr. Katsuki?”

“Of course,” said Yuuri.

“This competition was in part to promote some hype in the fashion community, yes,” said Victor, “but it was also for me.  I don’t know what I’m doing this season.”

There, he’d said it.  Victor wasn’t sure he had even admitted that to himself, and he certainly hadn’t told Yakov.  Yakov saw skating as more of a sport than an art; inspiration came second to technique.  As long as you had a program, inspiration could come after you had nailed your jumps. 

“You mean, for a program?” asked Yuuri.

“For any of it,” Victor said.  “For the music, the costume, my theme for the season… any of it.”

“Oh.”

“I kind of chose the competition in the hopes that I might see something that would… I don’t know, give me an idea.”

“And mine did?”  
“Yes,” Victor said emphatically.  “Or, well, it gave me a place to start.  I just don’t know what direction to go from here,” he amended.

“I see,” said Yuuri thoughtfully.  He didn’t seem upset or disappointed by Victor’s confession.  If anything, his honesty appeared to have relaxed Yuuri.  Victor hadn’t noticed any tension in Yuuri until it suddenly dropped away from his shoulders.  “Well, that’s fine.”

“It is?” asked Victor.

“Yeah, sure,” said Yuuri.  “I mean, for one thing, you’re the client, so it’s not my place to judge.”

That was not Victor’s experience with previous designers.

“And that means that by the end of the creative process, we’ll have a program, a costume, and music that all tie together really well, pieces of the same puzzle” Yuuri continued easily, and then his eyes went wide.  “I mean, I’m not about to take over your process for you, obviously, but if you want the help, I’ll do what I can!”

Well, that was oddly reassuring. This was the first time Yuuri had looked anything less than in complete control of the situation. 

“If I may, Mr. Katsuki, I rather wish you would,” Victor told him.  “At any rate, I think you could certainly help me.  I’d be grateful, if you wouldn’t mind.”  Yuuri still looked mildly surprised, but he smiled, and it was like the sun.

“Of course,” he said.  “I’ll do what I can, anyway.  So, Mr. Nikiforov—”

“Victor,” Victor interrupted.  “Please, call me Victor.”

“Erm, okay, Victor,” continued Yuuri, “You mentioned that you had a few ideas already for your free skate costume?”

“I may have lied?”

Yuuri laughed.

“Alright,” he said.  “Well, then let’s start with the short program costume; what did you like about it?”

Well that Victor could talk about.  He told Yuuri about his love for fairytales, and how he had never really incorporated that into his past work because it seemed too predictable.  He told him that he appreciated how utterly unpretentious the costume was, to him.  Yuuri started suggesting possible ideas, reaching for a notebook and scribbling down ideas.  Words started to flow a little easier, and Yuuri made a shockingly good sounding board, receptive and encouraging, constantly asking Victor to expand on his thoughts.  He didn’t speak much, instead seeming perfectly content to simply listen as Victor rambled.  Victor wasn’t sure he had spoken this much to one person in ages; normally, even when he spoke with Chris, he listened more to Chris’s crazy thoughts and adventures than he contributed his own.  Just over an hour had passed by the time Victor looked up at the clock. 

“I am so sorry, Yuuri, I’m afraid I have kept you for far longer than I had intended,” he apologized.  Yuuri shook his head.

“No, no don’t be sorry!” he said.  “It’s perfectly fine. I’m sure you have things to be doing, but I think I’ve got one or two ideas that I can sketch out.”

“Really? Already?”

“I mean, they’re vague, but if you want I can sketch them and show them to you next time we talk?”

“That sounds great, absolutely.”  Victor looked down at the notebook in front of him; he normally used it to draft out ideas for choreography, but until today he hadn’t touched it in weeks.  Now, the page before him was filled with scribbled words and crossed out half-finished sentences.  “I think I have more ideas than I thought I did.”

“Sometimes it takes a while for them to materialize,” said Yuuri.  “It’s almost like your mind has so many that it panics and thinks you don’t have any at all.  In my experience, anyway.”

Victor hummed.  “Well, it looks like I have quite a lot to consider after all.  How much do you charge per consultation, by the way?”

“Oh, um,” Yuuri said.  “I mean, the prize money is more than compensation, honestly, and the fact that you’re paying for both costumes separately.”

“But surely you want to be paid for your time?”

“Consider it part of the package then, if it makes you feel better,” Yuuri told him.

“I, alright, if you insist,” said Victor, though it came out as more of a question.  

“Great,” said Yuuri. “Well I’m going to just, ah, let you go, and I’ll hear from you soon?”

“Soon,” Victor promises.  “Thank you, Yuuri, really.”

“No problem, I mean, my pleasure, Victor,” Yuuri said, and then, “Bye!”

And he ended the call.

“Bye,” Victor whispered.  Sitting at his feet, Makkachin barked at him.

“Shut up,” Victor told her, but he was smiling.

He didn’t care to make himself stop.

 

“So…?  How’d it go?” Phichit asked that evening.  It was late, far too late to be eating dinner, but Phichit had worked late, something about a photo shoot for an article in a smaller magazine.  Working freelance wasn’t always consistent, in Phichit’s words, but it was certainly never boring.  Yuuri thought he’d do well as a full-on contracted photographer, but Phichit fretted that it might cramp his style.

Yuuri supposed that if it paid the bills, it didn’t matter.

“It went… really well, actually?” he said.  “I mean, I’m pretty sure I sounded like a total amateur, but he was really nice? I was kind of expecting, like, a figure skating prima donna, but he wasn’t like that at all.”

“Did he have weird requests? Was he like that one artist that tried to ask you out a few months ago?”

Yuuri was caught between groaning and laughing at the memory.  “No, he wasn’t trying to convince me of his own artistry, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “If anything, he seemed really normal.  Like he didn’t take himself too seriously.”  He took a bite of pizza, licking sauce from the corner of his mouth.  “He seemed a little lost, actually.”

“What did you do, get the guy’s life story?” asked Phichit.

“No, not exactly,” said Yuuri, embarrassed. “He’s just a really honest guy, I guess?  I asked him if he had any ideas and he said that’s why he had the competition in the first place, he wasn’t sure what he wanted.  He was looking for inspiration.” He set his pizza crust down and shrugged, deciding that he really didn’t need another slice after all.  That was fine, it meant he wouldn’t have to create anything for lunch tomorrow.  “At least, that’s how Victor made it sound.”

“Ohh, so it’s Victor now, is it?” asked Phichit, tone dripping with innuendo.

“I mean, that’s what he asked me to call him,” Yuuri said. “Like I said, he’s a nice guy.”

“And nice _looking_ , I might add.”

“Phichit, shut up,” said Yuuri. “He’s a client; his appearance is secondary to the job.”

“But I’m not wrong,” said Phichit.

“Well, obviously not.  The man looks like the love child of a fairy and a god,” sighed Yuuri.

“Ha! I knew it,” crowed Phichit.  Yuuri just shook his head.  He was self-aware enough to recognize a crush, and he also knew that to deny it would only make Phichit more insufferable.

Victor emailed him the following afternoon setting up another consultation, exactly one week in advance.  The tone of his first emails made a lot more sense knowing what the man’s true personality was like, and this one was equally bright and chipper. Yuuri created a clurry of sketches; his room looked more like an indoor paper blizzard than a bedroom.  He wondered how Victor was doing in his own quest for inspiration.  He watched Victor’s past programs several times in a row, picked apart his own design, read several collections of fairytales, and by the time the week was over, half a notebook was filled with ideas that even Yuuri could admit had potential.  On the day of their next consultation, Yuuri lined up his notebook, several swaths of rich, vivid fabric, and pain swatches arranged into a variety of color schemes.

“Yuuri!” Victor was, if possible, even more enthusiastic than he had been the last time they spoke.  “How are you?”

“Doing well, thanks,” said Yuuri, unable to stop his smile.  “I put together a few color palletes, and wanted to see if any of these designs interested you.  Nothing’s final, and if you want anything changed or altered, or if you want to combine components, we can totally do that.”

“So eager to get down to business,” Victor teased.  Yuuri could feel his face heat, and he hoped Victor couldn’t tell through the camera.

“Um,” he said, and God, he felt so out of his depth.

“I’m only joking, Yuuri,” Victor said, smile softening.  “I’d love to see what you have for me.”

Victor was perhaps the easiest person Yuuri had ever worked with.  He examined everything calmly and seriously, never dismissing a design right off the bat and often responding to details he liked with open excitement.  On the other hand, he was blatantly honest about details he felt…less keen on (apparently, ruffles of any sort were out of the question).  Sparkles were good, but Yuuri was starting to believe that Victor, while he had a dramatic air about him, was a true artist at heart, with a love of subtlety and expression that showed both on and off the ice, it appeared.  He had a sincerity about his manner that made him so instantly likeable, with a charm that went beyond mere charisma because it was so _real_. 

Yuuri had always believed that a person’s choice in outfit or style spoke far more about someone than their facial expressions or words.  Victor’s leanings toward subtle patterns and elegant refinement, his desire to tell a story—not necessarily his own, not in a biographical sense, but one that he still felt very personally—all of these things told Yuuri that this was a man who would accept nothing less than his own personal best, who understood himself, but also desired to play up to his audience, but always in ways they wouldn’t see coming.

And the word _play_ seemed to be the best word to use; Victor’s comments were honest and practical, yes, but also witty.  They fell down more than one rabbit hole as their conversation progressed.  Yuuri started thinking that, while he had never paid much mind to figure skating in the past, he certainly would become a follower for Victor’s commentary alone.

He tried not to sound too excited when Victor requested another consultation to be scheduled for the following week.  If he was content to drag the process out a little longer, well, it simply meant he was dedicated to the details.

“How did your own research go, by the way?” Yuuri asked at one point, during a lull in the conversation that he was using to rearrange the notes he had made over the last half-hour. “Done any soul searching?”

Victor laughed.  “It’s been quite the quest, if I’m honest,” he said. “I really liked the idea of a fairy tale theme, but I don’t think that’s quite what I want.  It’s just on the tip of my tongue, though.  I just wish…” His eyes grew wide.  “Yuuri!  Thank you, you’re perfect, that’s it!”

It seemed Victor was determined to make a habit of making Yuuri blush.  “I’m glad, um, I mean, you’re welcome? I’m not sure what I did though.”

“Longing, dreams, wishes,” said Victor, and he was practically glowing.  “Think of what I could do with that, the possibilities—they’re limitless!”

“Oh,” said Yuuri, Victor’s grin causing a matching one to bloom over his own features. “Oh, that’s wonderful! What do you think of the color blue?”

“I love it! Why?”

“For your costume, for your free skate program,” Yuuri said, words tumbling over each other in his haste to speak them.  “It’s a color often associated with dreams and whimsy, but it’s also very regal, perfect for…”

“For?”

“Forafairytaleprince,” said Yuuri in one rushed breath.

“Sorry?” asked Victor.  “I didn’t catch that.”

“Nothing, anyway, would you like to look over those designs again with the theme in mind? See if it inspires new inspiration?”

_Inspires new inspiration?! You sound like you never went to one of the finest art schools in America—you sound like you can’t speak English!_

Victor looked slightly confused, but he fell into the new topic quite willingly.  They spent the rest of the hour discussing symbols and patterns that could be incorporated into the top of the costume, which devolved into whether a particular type of sleeve could carry a particular connotation (“It’s not like Victorian flower languages, Victor,” Yuuri said, laughing,) and they spent another hour talking about their respective jobs (both of them doubling as art and work at the same time) dogs (they both had poodles, and they found it easy to agree that yes, poodles were the best breed, no matter the size) and the benefits of kale (there were none).  They could have gone for far longer, but eventually Yuuri realized he needed to make lunch and Victor had another early start, so they bid each other good day and hung up.

Yuuri, throughout the rest of his day, found himself wishing they could have talked just a bit longer.  He had no idea, however, that on the other side of the world, Victor was smiling even as he slept. 

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments like I love cheesecake- passionately, madly, deeply.


End file.
